Loss (16 page)

He eased his way along the wall then made a stumble for the stairs. I heard the cat yelp as he passed the bottom flat, then the door slammed behind him.

I chapped up the auld wifey at number three. She took an age to answer. ‘Hello there,’ I said.

‘Oh, it’s you. I thought it was the stair fella again.’

I dug in my pocket for the notes. ‘I don’t think we’ll be seeing him any more. He’s shut up shop, and, well, he’s given us a refund.’

I handed over the twenty-six pounds.

She had glasses on a chain around her neck, she put them on, ‘Oh, I think he’s given me too much.’

I smiled, gave her a wave as I turned to my flat. ‘Treat yourself,’ I said. This wealth distribution felt good. Knew it would never catch on.

Usual barked and jumped onto the couch at the sight of me, barked again and dropped back down. He stretched out his front paws and lowered his chest to the floor. I was grateful for the welcome but thought I deserved none of it.

‘Down, boy, down.’ I patted his head, watched his tail wag as I took out my mobi; I’d had it switched off since my meeting with Andy and there were half a dozen missed calls from Mac.

I pressed ‘return call’.

He answered on the second ring. ‘Where the fuck you been?’

‘I owe you a tenner,’ I said.

‘
Wha’
?’

‘Just caught the stair pisher . . .’

He didn’t even laugh. His voice came low and flat: ‘Gus, there’s been some developments.’

‘Such as?’

‘Hod got into a bit of bother . . . got himself a bad kicking.’

I didn’t like the sound of this. I’d asked Hod to look into the Czechs. He had a rep for Rambo-ing. ‘Spill it.’

‘There were words exchanged . . . some boxing.’

Knew at once he’d been hurt. ‘How bad?’

‘He’s up on bricks.’

‘I’ll be right round.’

Mac raised his voice: ‘Gus, he’s not here. He’s at the hospital.’

I felt empty.

Hung up.

The thought of Hod being worked over felled me. I headed straight for the cludgie and took out my bag of speed. I’d been hammering it; the wraps were going down. I got tanked into one, then another. The dog watched me. He knew I was up to something, wore that ‘Debs won’t be pleased’ look of his. I yelled him off. He flattened ears and went to his basket. ‘Like I could feel any worse,’ I told him.

I took myself to the hall, then back to the kitchenette and opened one of the cupboard doors. My mind was working so fast on all the possibilities that I hardly noticed my movements speeding. I dished up some Pal for the dog and grabbed my Crombie from the hallstand.

It was rush-hour traffic, roads clogged with double-deckers. For half an hour I sat in a stationary lane next to a ten-foot poster of Carol Smillie flogging the chance to win a million quid on the Postcode Lottery. When I finally made it to the Royal the sky was dark and the temperature well below zero. I got the ward number from reception and headed for the lift. I still felt like I was speeding out my face, the blood pushing behind my temples as the bell pinged and the doors opened.

Mac sat on the end of the bed. As I clocked Hod he looked to have been solidly worked over. Both his eyes were blackened. His nose wore a white T-bar where the doctors had tried to reset it; I knew from experience it would never be the same. I was relieved to see his limbs had been spared. Thought: Christ, how bad is it if you’re grateful his kneecaps are intact?

‘All right,’ I said as I walked in. I eyed some fruit sitting by his bedside, a bottle of Lucozade and a couple of cards. ‘I, eh, haven’t brought anything . . . sorry.’

Hod shrugged. Immediately a wince spread on his face and he touched his ribs. ‘Don’t sweat it, I’ve been promised jelly, I’m rapt.’

I smiled, glad I wasn’t being blamed for this. Least not by Hod.

Mac spoke: ‘Where you been all day?’

It didn’t seem the place to talk. There was an old geezer in the next bed, sitting up in striped pyjamas, reading the
Hootsman
. I tried to appease Mac, hunted in my pocket for a tenner, handed it over. ‘Here you go . . . Your winnings.’

He grinned. ‘Stair pisher got you as well, eh?’

‘What’s this?’ said Hod.

We both shook heads. Mac said, ‘Fancy a donner down to the day room?’

Hod hauled himself out of bed. ‘Aye, c’mon . . . Grab a coffee, eh.’

Hod hobbled down the corridor – wouldn’t take any help. In the day room we bagged some industrial-issue chairs, bright orange hoseable numbers that looked like relics of the seventies. Thought they wouldn’t have been out of place in our rental flat.

Mac carried over three cups. ‘Only got tea.’

‘I can’t drink tea,’ I said.

Mac looked back to the vending machine. ‘There’s soup – mushroom, I think.’

‘I’ll go without.’

When I got a closer look at Hod’s injuries I saw his knuckles were scraped to bits, swollen and bruised. ‘You got a few good biffs in, then,’ I said, pointing to his hands.

He grinned. ‘Some fucking belters.’

Mac sipped his tea, tore back the corners of his mouth. I guessed I’d made the right move crying off it. Went, ‘So, what happened?’

Hod drew fists. It looked difficult for him; the tendons in his wrists showed as he spoke to Mac. ‘Did you give him it?’

‘Nope . . . first I’ve seen him since.’

I looked between them, tried to piece together their thoughts. ‘I’m guessing this was the Czechs. Right?’

Mac returned to his tea, blew on it. He shook his head. ‘Tell him from the start.’

Hod’s shoulders rose and fell beneath his gown. His face portrayed every painful movement. ‘I haven’t got started on the Czechs yet, Gus.’

That only left one other option. The thought stuck in me like a blade.

‘You haven’t?’

Hod spoke: ‘I was planning to, but got a bit sidetracked.’

I took the blow. ‘Wasn’t meaning . . .’

‘Don’t worry. Can I get on with this?’ He leaned forward, took a sip of tea. ‘Christ, that tea’s rough . . . Anyway, I was locking up and there was a bloke standing over the road, staring in. Just giving me eyeball, y’know. And I thought, What’s his fucking problem? So I says I’ll go have a word, and he gets the same idea, started strutting over like the Big I Am, yeah . . .’

I couldn’t see that going down well with Hod. Man works sites in all weathers, he develops a certain amount of hard.

‘I thought he was casing the bar, or had his eye on the till . . . or fuck, I dunno, maybe I’d put a line on his bird or something. So I went out. He was a big lad. Y’know, skinhead, fucking rocks in his head more like. And I said, “What you playing at, mate?”’

I felt Mac’s eyes on me. He was waiting for my reaction to the next bit.

Hod went on, ‘So then he goes, “Nice pub. Gus Dury still run it?” I told him I was the fucking owner and what’s he asking about you for, and the cunt starts to laugh.’

I glanced at Mac. He was nodding, said, ‘It gets better.’

‘So I asked him what was so funny,’ said Hod, ‘and then he walks off. I was half tempted to panel the prick, when he got into a big Daimler and who’s in the back but—’

I cut in, ‘Ronnie McMilne.’

Mac and Hod looked at each other. ‘How did you know that?’ said Mac.

‘I had a visit myself.’

Hod tutted. ‘Not one like mine you didn’t.’

I thanked my stars for that. ‘So, then what?’

‘I went back to the pub, cashed up. I was about to go and put the shutters up when the skinhead came in, dropped a packet on the bar and walked off.’

Mac took something out of his pocket, handed it to me. It was a Marlboro packet. I opened it up – all the cigarettes were still inside, except one. It had been replaced by a long bullet, kind you put in an assault rifle.

I closed the box. ‘He gave you this for me?’

Hod nodded. ‘I opened it up and he said, “That’s for Dury” . . . I just flipped. I ran after him, had him in the street, grabbed his coat over his head and was weighing into him. Was battering ten bells out the cunt when the Daimler screeched up and another lump got out.’

I didn’t know what to say. I felt my spine straighten; as it did so a single bead of cold sweat ran the length of it. I reached out to Hod, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Mate, I’m truly sorry. You can’t imagine how mad this makes me.’

Hod brushed away my hand, leaned over and put an eye on me. ‘Gus, don’t get mad . . . get fucking even.’

WHEN I BROKE THE NEWS about Hod to Debs she went apeshit. Her concern about how I was handling my brother’s death was now replaced by her greatest fear – that I’d soon be going the same way as him. I knew she wondered what I’d let myself in for; Christ, I did too.

‘Gus, this has got to stop,’ she yelled. ‘Now, before anyone else gets hurt.’

I put my hands on her shoulders. She was shaking with fear, hurt, maybe both. ‘It will. It will.’

‘But how? With you in the ground?’ Her face contorted, twisted into a mask of anguish and then her lips quivered as tears came.

‘No, Debs, I wouldn’t put you through that.’

‘Oh, you think you’ll have a fucking choice.’

She ran from the living room, slammed the door behind her. I thought to follow, try to explain, but I knew there was no explaining. I had let Debs down again – I wondered how much longer she would put up with it.

I took down my Crombie and the car keys.

The flat was too small for both of us when the atmosphere turned this sour. I knew things were bad now. ‘Debs, are you okay?’

No answer.

‘Debs,’ I knocked on the bedroom door, ‘. . . hon, I’m sorry. I know you’re sore at me.’

I heard her jump off the bed, the door jerked open. ‘Sore at you . . . Sore at you! . . . Gus, you have no idea!’

I wanted to say something but nothing sparked in my mind. I made another weak play: ‘I’m seeing Dr Naughton tomorrow. I’m doing that for you.’

Her mouth widened, I saw her teeth white against her tongue. ‘You’re doing that for
you
, Gus . . . You’re doing that for you.’

‘I know, I only meant—’

‘You don’t know what you meant. You don’t know anything any more, Gus . . . All you know is how to hurt. How to feel hurt, and how to spread hurt.’

She started to sob into her hands. I dropped my coat and reached out to her. ‘Debs, come on . . . don’t say that.’

She only cried harder. She pushed me away with her fists and went back to the bedroom. I watched Usual come through from the living room and lie down at the door. I wanted to tell Debs she was wrong, that I wasn’t like that, but the truth was – she was right. I left her alone; she was better off without me.

I picked up my coat again.

Outside it felt colder than I ever remembered it. The air seemed to crackle in front of me as my breath touched it. My ears and nose nipped, my lips dried and hardened. As I walked to the car the icy surface of the pavement crunched underfoot, the frost sticking to the soles of my Docs. I felt my knees twinge on every step as the cold blasts from the street cut at my shins.

I stood in front of Meadowbank Stadium waiting for Mac to collect me. The temperature was far too low to hang about and I was relieved when I saw him driving down in Hod’s Toyota Hilux; I raised a hand in a wave. The truck slowed, stopped in front of me. I jumped in the cab. It was warm inside, the heater blasting. Bit of Big Country blasting too. I turned it off – couldn’t face guitars that sound like bagpipes.

‘Hey, I was listening to that,’ said Mac.

I shut him down: ‘Gimme the SP.’

Mac had been trailing Davie Prentice since the night before. I needed to know what he’d found out; it could be useful for when we pulled him again. Things had started to get desperate after Andy talked and Hod got worked over. I knew I needed to move fast. Fat Davie had already whipped up a shit storm between the Undertaker and the Czechs – I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was battered about in the eye of it.

Mac spoke: ‘Well, for a kick-off, he’s got some tart up in Restalrig . . . A right Boaby Moore, got her set up in some rathole flat by the look of it.’

I asked for the address, stored it away.

He continued, ‘The fat prick headed off there at knocking-off time last night.’ He laughed at his unintended joke. ‘
Knocking-off
time – see what I did there?’

I gave him a slow hand-clap, said, ‘Go on.’

‘He was up there again this afternoon, took a carry-out from the Cantonese. Came back out with a bag of prawn crackers and a grin on his face you could have crossed the Forth on.’

‘Prawn crackers . . . How the other half live, eh.’

We hit Queen’s Drive. It stunned me to see people out running in this weather. At the roundabout Mac drove straight through, followed the Holyrood Park Road traffic to the lights outside the Commonwealth Pool.

‘So where is he now?’ I said.

Mac put on the indicator, turned left down Dalkeith Road. He pulled through the gears, then slammed on the anchors for another sharp left. We headed for Prestonfield Golf Course.

‘On the links.’

‘You jest . . . It’s six-below out.’

‘He’s on the nineteenth hole, mate.’ At Prestonfield House, Mac parked up. Davie’s big old Citroën was in the space next to us. ‘Want me to haul him out?’

‘In front of his golfing buddies . . . that would be unkind.’

Mac opened the door, slid out. As he was about to leave he turned back. ‘There’s something under there for you. Thought you might thank me for it.’

I ran my hand under the front seat, felt something cold: a plastic baggie. I pulled it out. Was just what I needed – had been running low on amphetamine support. I took a wrap, fired it, tucked the rest in my jacket.

A few moments later fat Davie appeared, stumbling out of the front door. Mac walked behind him, prodding him in the back with his hand. If anyone had seen this performance they would have thought Mac was a carer, mistreating some half-witted care in the community patient. Fat Davie slipped and stumbled on the scree; it might have been comical if the consequences weren’t so serious now.